Page 15 of The Knockout Rule

“Yeah, of course. Have a great day.” He handed her ID back.

Without looking at him, she hurried into the private gym Brick’s team had rented and rested her back on the closed door. She shut her eyes and breathed, counting slowly from one to ten. Pressed her hand to her stomach, focused on the air filling her belly like a balloon.

Inflate, deflate.

I am here. I am fine. Nothing bad is happening.

She dug her feet harder into the floor, the solid foundation grounding her. Her breathing became easier. Her lungs expanded wider.

“You okay?”

Isla snapped her eyes wide. Brick was in the middle of the room, watching her intently. He was in a tank top and shorts, every muscle in his massive body glistening with sweat. Her heart resumed warp speed. “I’m fine.” But she sounded curt again. The opposite of her planned apology.

He dragged his forearm across his sweaty forehead. “You don’t look fine.”

The last thing she needed was to acknowledge how messed up she was to her client. She may not have wanted to treat Brick, but she couldn’t have a chink in her reputation. Not when starting her practice.

“Did you get the paperwork done?” She couldn’t tell if the question had come out as a challenge. That slight panic attack was still lingering, her nerves shot to hell.

His lips flattened. “You mean did I manage that tough work on my own?”

Yep. She’d been challenging. Constantly sticking her foot in it with this guy. “I didn’t mean on your own like I thought you needed help. You clearly didn’t. The questions were straightforward. Not that the difficulty matters. I’m sure you’d have been fine with harder questions. You’re just busy with training and getting settled, and you have that dog, and I…” Needed to shut the hell up. “Where are the forms?”

Embarrassed by her motor mouth, she dropped her gaze from his intense stare to his neck. His tendons flexed, sweat dripping down the strong cords. She watched the moisture slide over his collarbone until it dipped under the damp cotton of his tank top. The thin fabric clung to his body, outlining his defined pecs and a hint of his abdominals. Hard ridges that made her mouth go dry.

She needed to get a grip. Brick was no more fit than most of her clients. Abs were just muscles that formed a wall of protection for the viscera and helped maintain erect posture. But now she was thinking about erect things. Defined hip bones. Impossibly strong thighs. If one of those powerful legs pressed between hers, lifted her up, rubbed just enough…

“On the treatment table,” he said.

“What?” Heat bloomed in her lower belly as her heart resumed racing.

He squinted at her. “The forms—they’re on the treatment table.”

She wanted him on that treatment table, in a non-professional manner, and she had no clue why. Attraction never blindsided her like this, not when treating clients. She walked into meetings with her physiotherapy hat on. Not her come-hither hat. That slight panic had muddled her brain.

Flustered, she walked over to the table and almost stumbled over a dog. “Jesus.”

“His name’s Whit, not Jesus.”

Right. Whit. She’d made that crack on the plane, asking if he’d had a cat called Smart. She’d also assumed he’d misspelled the dog’s name. Now she’d bet it had another deeper meaning. “Does he go everywhere with you?”

He eyed the wrinkly bulldog with adoration, his moodiness dissipating. “As much as possible.”

He clearly loved the ugly mutt. Pretending to be a dog person might be a step forward, a way to thaw the ice between them. She squatted down and gave Whit a pet. The pup chuffed and leaned into her hand. Isla hadn’t spent much time around pets. Neither of her parents had cared to take on the responsibility, and she’d been happier reading than cleaning up dog poop.

She stroked Whit’s thick neck, the heat and solidness of him grounding her more than her breathing exercises had. He leaned harder into the touch, like he wanted to absorb more of her tension. The nicest warmth spread up her arm.

“He’s good at calming me down, too,” Brick said, his voice closer than expected.

The sprawling room had a full gym, including assorted physiotherapy equipment, two treatment tables, a stretching area, and boxing accoutrement. The space was huge, but Brick had moved closer, too close, the air around her condensing with his body heat.

She stood and walked briskly to the treatment table, grabbed the forms, trying to steady her shaky grip. She didn’t like dogs. Or boxers. Yet she’d found herself comforted by the former and attracted to the latter. Had she walked into some kind of Twilight Zone?

She forced her erratic focus on the looping words written on the pages. Brick was twenty-seven, the same age as her. He had beautiful writing, elegant and uniform. The type of cursive that would fill a nineteenth-century diary. She pictured a fountain pen in his huge hand dancing over the page in a flourish as he nibbled his bottom lip in concentration, and her traitorous body reacted again.

This was more than panic-induced attraction. The dating app must be to blame. Signing up had been a reminder of how long it had been since she’d felt the weight of a man on top of her. So long, even a boxing client was making her flush.

She blinked hard and bit her cheek. Started reading the form again, did a doubletake at the name he’d written. “Eric Kramarovsky?”